CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MERCY
The office was unusually still for a Friday evening. The soft hum of the air conditioner was the only sound breaking the silence. Most people had already left, their laughter and chatter fading into the elevator before disappearing altogether.
I stood at the end of the corridor, staring at the COO's door, one hand hovering over the handle. My heart was beating far too fast.
"Come in," came his calm voice.
I pushed the door open.
Mr. Nnamdi Okafor — the Chief Operating Officer, Nat's second-in-command — sat behind his desk, coat off, sleeves rolled up. He didn't look up immediately. The glow from his laptop lit his face, throwing shadows across his jaw.
When he finally raised his eyes, they found me like they always did — with unsettling precision.
"Lock the door, Mercy."
His tone was quiet, even — but it wasn't a request.
"Sir… someone might—"
"Lock it."
I obeyed, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should have.
He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "You look nervous."
"I'm not."
A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "You should be. You and I both know what happens if someone sees you here."
He wasn't wrong.
Everyone in the company already thought I was Nat's girl. The whispers had started months ago — hushed gossip in the hallways, side glances in meetings. Nat believed no one knew. He thought our arrangement was private.
But how could it be, when he called me into his office at every odd hour? When his assistant quietly slipped out whenever I walked in?
Everyone knew.
And everyone judged.
The truth? I had begged for it — begged Nat for a piece of him.
He hadn't wanted to give it, not at first. I was the one who insisted. I wanted power, attention, something that made me feel like I mattered.
He gave me what I asked for — his body, whenever he needed release — nothing more. No affection. No emotion. No pretense.
To Nat, I was convenience.
To the rest of the company, I was scandal.
And to Nnamdi… I was temptation.
He rose from his seat and came toward me with that quiet confidence that always made me uneasy.
"You've been avoiding me," he said.
"I've been busy."
"With him?"
My throat went dry. "We don't talk about that."
He smiled faintly. "We just did."
There was no mockery in his voice — just curiosity, slow and deliberate.
"You don't have to look so tense," he said, pausing by the edge of his desk. "I only called you up because I wanted to thank you. You handled the logistics report well."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Thank me?"
He nodded. "You work harder than most people give you credit for."
The compliment disarmed me. "Thank you, sir."
"But," he added softly, stepping closer, "you know that's not the only reason you're here."
My pulse skipped. "Then what is?"
His gaze lingered on me, unreadable. "You've been pretending for too long, Mercy. You think you can play Nat's game and come out unscathed."
"I'm not pretending."
"Yes, you are," he murmured. "You think being close to power means you own some of it. But with him, you never will."
Something inside me flinched. "What do you know about it?"
He smiled — slow, knowing. "Enough to know he doesn't see you the way you want him to."
I swallowed hard. "And you do?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
The word settled between us, heavy and dangerous.
My mind flashed back to that night.
The night that shouldn't have happened.
It had been three months ago — a late Friday just like this. We had stayed back to finish the quarterly report. When we finally got it done, he brought out a bottle of wine from his cabinet to celebrate. I'd told him no at first, but one glass turned into two, and laughter blurred into something softer.
One careless, unguarded moment — his hand brushed mine, then my face, and before I knew it, his lips were on mine. What followed was a blur of heat and surrender. I had let him.
The next morning, guilt and fear had set in like fever.
I'd avoided him since then, burying myself in work, pretending nothing happened.
Until tonight.
He stepped closer now, breaking through my memory. "You've been avoiding me since that night," he said quietly.
I froze. "You remember?"
His eyes softened. "I haven't forgotten."
Neither had I.
He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, his fingers lingering. "You deserve better than being someone's secret."
"I don't need saving," I whispered.
"Who said anything about saving?" His thumb traced my jawline, slow and deliberate. "Maybe I just want a piece of what he doesn't value."
My breath caught. "You shouldn't."
"Maybe I already have," he murmured, his voice low and steady.
Before I could answer, his lips met mine — tentative, testing. It wasn't rough like Nat's. It wasn't a demand. It was an invitation, and that scared me more.
I kissed him back — just once, long enough to know it wasn't a mistake I could erase later. When I stepped away, my heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
"We can't do this," I breathed.
He studied me, calm but intent. "You think he'll care?"
I looked at him, searching for cruelty. There was none. Only quiet conviction.
"Nat doesn't love you, Mercy. He never did. But I…" He paused, his jaw tightening. "I want more than what he throws away."
I shook my head. "You don't mean that. You're saying it because you can — because we made a mistake once."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just the only one honest enough to admit it."
The silence that followed was thick. Only the hum of the air conditioner filled the room.
Then came footsteps.
I stepped back quickly. Nnamdi turned, sat down, and pulled a file toward him just as the door opened.
His secretary peeked in. "Sir, I was about to leave. Anything else before I go?"
"No," he said smoothly, without a blink. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sir."
The door shut.
For a long moment, we said nothing.
"You should go," he said finally, his voice quiet again.
I nodded, picking up my bag. My hands trembled slightly.
"Mercy," he said as I reached for the door.
I turned back.
"This doesn't have to end here."
I forced a small, uneasy smile. "It should."
Then I walked out.
---
The corridor lights flickered as I made my way to the elevator. My reflection on the glass doors looked like a stranger — a woman who no longer knew where power ended and weakness began.
Outside, the night air was cool against my skin. I stood by the curb, waiting for a cab, my thoughts circling the same question over and over — how had I become this person?
If anyone had seen me in his office this late, I'd be finished. Not because of Nat — he wouldn't care — but because everyone else would.
To them, I was already that woman.
I told myself I could handle it, that I'd chosen this life. But as the cab pulled up and I climbed in, something inside me trembled.
When the driver asked where I was headed, my voice came out small.
"Home," I said.
The city lights blurred past as we drove away.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel desired or powerful.
I just felt tired — and afraid of what tomorrow would bring.